


Put up Your (Daisy) Dukes

by dracoismytrashson (JGogoboots)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, I had a dream about it and I've been cackling ever since so here you go, Kissing, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Stiles in short shorts is the main event tbh, but that's very brief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29364396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JGogoboots/pseuds/dracoismytrashson
Summary: “I did not say that,” Stiles replies, leaning in closer. Although the thump-thump of the dance music is a little more muted back here, it’s still loud and obnoxious. Not that Stiles minds. He’s all too happy to have the excuse to cozy up to Peter.“You shook me while shouting ‘We can have code names! We need code names, Peter! Some real Mission Impossible: Gay Fuckery Edition shit,’” Peter reminds him with a broad grin.Look, it might have been Stiles's idea to dress up in denim cutoffs and go with Peter to investigate some disappearances at a club, but that doesn't make him feel any less ridiculous, okay??
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 22
Kudos: 205





	Put up Your (Daisy) Dukes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mockspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockspeed/gifts).



> So I had a dream where I was watching TW, a scene came on with Stiles in short, slutty cutoffs sitting with a shirtless Peter, and I pointed and yelled at the screen, "THERE'S NO HETEROSEXUAL REASON FOR THIS!!!" 
> 
> I asked the lovely and talented [mockspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockspeed) if they would draw this scene for me, and they suggested a collab! So I hope this absurd fic gives you many laughs, dear readers, and please give mockspeed some love for their amazing art! I've embedded it in the fic below, but I know it'll be up on their Tumblr ([mock-arts](https://mock-arts.tumblr.com/)) later too. :)
> 
> A big thank you to the always lovely [Twisted_Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind) for beta-ing this nonsense as well!

“I have to say, when you agreed to look the part, I was assuming you’d wear something a  _ little _ classier than this.”

“Oh fuck off, Peter. Number one, I don’t think Slutty Half-Naked Club Twink #2 is a part that screams ‘class.’ What were you expecting? A silk negligee?! Number two, this is all I had on short notice, okay?” Stiles’s cheeks go scarlet as he wishes a robe or a coat or even a fucking bedsheet would magically appear so he can cover up. Or for the Earth to open up and swallow him. Either will do. The truth is, he’s not wild about being shirtless in too-small denim cutoffs either. When he grabbed them from a dusty, neglected corner of his closet, they seemed like an equal-parts sexy and hilarious choice. But now that he’s in the backroom of this dark, sweaty club, sitting on a crushed velvet loveseat with Peter, whose button-down is completely unbuttoned and open, revealing a perfectly toned chest that Stiles can’t stop staring at, the shorts feel like a stupid option. It doesn’t help that Stiles just walked through a gauntlet of super hot guys whose perfection made him feel very pretty inadequate. Did someone pluck every Adonis from a ten-mile radius and dump them onto the dance floor of this club??

“Oh, don’t be self-conscious, sweetheart. These still have… a certain appeal. Especially on you,” Peter says as his eyes rake up and down Stiles’s barely-clothed body.

“God, you’re enjoying this way too much, Creeper Wolf.”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”

“I didn’t agree to shit!”

“You agreed to  _ this,” _ Peter purrs, fingers playing with the frayed hem of Stiles’s shorts. Peter flashes a smile so goddamn pornographic, Stiles is tempted to whip out his driver’s license just to prove he’s old enough to be looking at it. It’s true. Stiles  _ did _ agree to go undercover with Peter. Four guys who have been at this club have disappeared in the last six months. No body, no blood, no trace. Just gone. All young, college-aged guys. Thin, pale. Like Stiles. Hence him being bait. 

“Yeah, well, there were extenuating circumstances. I was in no state to be agreeing to anything, and you  _ knew _ that, and that is why you’re totally getting the Creeper Wolf label.” Stiles fidgets on the loveseat, partly because these shorts keep riding up. He’s not even sure where they came from? Some relic of old summer days rolling around in the backyard, if the ill-fitting size of them is any indication. Stiles grimaces down at the fabric underneath him; he’s pretty sure shining a UV light on this thing would reveal a whole Jackson Pollock splatter of stains whose origins Stiles would rather not think about. Still, the seediness of this place is a little intriguing. Stiles is tempted to peer beyond the beaded curtain separating them from the main dance floor and watch the gyrating bodies for a while. It’s been… well, it’s been a  _ while, _ okay? He’s a little pent-up. Anything remotely sex-adjacent is a painful reminder of how much he’s not getting. “I was about three gin and tonics deep when I agreed to this whole thing.”

Even as Stiles says it, he feels like it doesn’t really matter. Peter has a way of being more persuasive and charismatic than any cult leader. He can talk anyone into anything, and Stiles doesn’t need to be drunk for Peter’s charm to work. Still, if Stiles admits that all Peter would need to do to convince him to dress all skimpy and pretend to be Peter’s slutty boytoy is snap his very elegant fingers, well… that would involve Stiles admitting  _ why _ that is. And he’s got a qualified therapist who can attest to his exceptional ability to deny, deny, deny.

“I seem to recall you greeting the idea with unbridled enthusiasm that had nothing to do with alcohol. You grabbed me by the shoulders and said, ‘it’ll be totally hilarious. Like you’re a gay Hugh Hefner, and I’m your Joey Mills.’”

“I did not say that,” Stiles replies, leaning in closer. Although the thump-thump of the dance music is a little more muted back here, it’s still loud and obnoxious. Not that Stiles minds. He’s all too happy to have the excuse to cozy up to Peter.

“You shook me while shouting ‘We can have code names! We need code names, Peter! Some real Mission Impossible: Gay Fuckery Edition shit,’” Peter reminds him with a broad grin.

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a hearty laugh. 

“I  _ have _ to stop drinking gin. I don’t know what it is, but I hatch more crazy plans than a cartoon mad scientist when I’m on the fucking gin.”

“Mmm, I think that’s just your nature, gin or not.” Peter strokes his fingers across Stiles’s bare thigh, and Stiles shivers, his exposed skin erupting in goosebumps.

“Stop. We’re here to work,” Stiles says with an eye-roll, swatting Peter’s hand away.

“Sorry. Just playing the part, but I don’t really want to make you uncomfortable. You know that, right? Say the word, and we abandon this entire plan.” Peter’s icy blue eyes go serious, his voice dipping low in a way that makes Stiles feel hot and twitchy all over. 

And that’s the thing, really. Peter _ doesn’t _ want to make Stiles uncomfortable, and Stiles knows that. Sure, Peter pushes boundaries, bending them at the middle like he’s testing the strength of the elastic, but he always stops if it’s about to snap. He and Stiles have that in common. Not to mention that Peter’s perceptive as fuck, and it’s not just the werewolf senses. I mean, Scott has the emotional sensor capability of a fucking rock; supernatural power isn’t a guarantee for incisiveness, but Peter? Peter knows Stiles wants to be here, and Stiles knows Peter knows. Peter refraining from saying it, pretending like it’s not being broadcast in chemosignals with the potency of an entire Bath & Body Works store is just a courtesy he’s granting Stiles, waiting until Stiles finally gives the go-ahead to push across that final boundary.

“Yeah yeah, I know. It’s okay. Um,” Stiles clears his throat and scoots a little closer, his bent legs drawn up onto the loveseat, knees resting against Peter’s leg, “we do need to make it convincing though. That’s why we’re here, right? Make me look like a tempting snack for the taking?”

“Right,” Peter says with a satisfied smirk, swiping a hand down Stiles’s chest. “How much leeway does this cover story buy me?”

“You are so sleazy,” Stiles says with a shake of his head, but they both know it’s bullshit. It might be as dark as midnight in here, but he’s betting Peter can still see his blush. And he can definitely hear Stiles’s racing heart.

“You love it,” Peter counters, gently tugging on Stiles’s thigh. Once again, he doesn’t take it all the way. He urges Stiles toward his lap, but he still lets Stiles make the choice.

And make the choice he does, because why the fuck not? He has the perfect excuse, a built-in plausible deniability that he should be using to his very horny advantage, dammit. Stiles hikes one leg up and crawls into Peter’s lap, his blush intensifying as he realizes he’s straight up straddling Peter Hale. Stiles’s hands fall to Peter’s chest. Peter’s buttondown is open to reveal muscle and skin and pert nipples that Stiles wants to bend down and lick. Peter leans in until his lips are nearly touching Stiles’s cheek.

  


“Do you know how much I like you, Stiles?” Peter whispers, pressing a soft kiss to Stiles’s ear. It’s such a brief touch, but Stiles’s thighs are going up in flames and his hard cock is threatening to bust through his stupidly tiny shorts.

“Shut up.”

“Why?”

“Look, you know I hate being the center of attention. That’s more Lydia’s thing. I’m a strictly ‘lurk in the back corner and blend into the wallpaper’ kind of guy.” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, his fingers sliding beneath Peter's shirt and curling around his shoulders, trying to ignore how fucking amazing it feels to have Peter’s skin under his hands. 

“You could  _ never _ blend into the wallpaper. You deserve to be doted on.” Peter kisses Stiles’s neck and runs a soothing hand up and down his back. “You deserve to be the center of someone’s attention, whether or not you think you do, Stiles. You deserve everything.” 

Stiles suddenly realizes he’s full on grinding down in Peter’s lap, his hips—fucking traitors, he’ll be having a very stern talk with them later—just automatically rolling in urgent little circles. His body is being completely shameless about what it wants, even if his mind is lagging behind a little bit. 

“Sh-shouldn’t we be—um—doing what we came here to do? Like… watching for the owner who is maybe a murderer and all that?” Stiles forces his body to stop moving, pulling back enough to look into Peter’s eyes. Apparently, that was the worst move Stiles could make because the way Peter is looking at him is intoxicating. It’s the kind of exhilarating headrush you get when you roll down a hill and stand up too quickly, giggling from the pure joy of everything spinning around you. “You asshole and your fucking ridiculously pretty eyes…”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, darling,” Peter laughs, his gaze flitting from Stiles’s eyes to his lips. He starts to lean in, and Stiles swears he can feel the air crackling with the “almost,” that butterfly-wing flap of excitement that happens right before you finally kiss someone you’ve been dreaming about for months. Stiles closes his eyes and leans in, his lips parting in anticipation, but nothing happens. 

Peter growls, but it’s the kind of growl that Stiles recognizes as a warning. He frowns, opening his eyes to find Peter’s face half-shifted, fangs dropped and eyes a blazing sapphire. In one fluid motion, Peter stands up, moving Stiles from his lap and tossing him onto the couch, coming to a protective stance in front of him. Peter’s claws are out; he clearly has someone in his sights, but Stiles can’t see who it is. 

Stiles cautiously peers around Peter’s shoulder and sees white glowing eyes and two rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“You shouldn’t have brought such a tasty little thing here, wolf,” the Wendigo snarls, and Peter lunges forward with a roar. The Wendigo leaps toward him, and in a matter of seconds, Peter has a taloned hand around either side of the creature’s head. With a bone-crunching snap—for some reason, the first thought in Stiles’s head is “sounds like fresh celery” so… probably never eating  _ that _ again—the Wendigo’s neck separates from his body, his severed head hitting the ground with a thud. It rolls right into the cheesy aquarium at the back of the room, and Stiles can’t decide whether to laugh at the absurd image, be horrified at the carnage, or be kind of horny for the way Peter protected him and completely eviscerated that creature in the blink of an eye.

“Well… I guess we know why the bodies were never found. He was eating them,” Peter says, calm as can be as he rolls his neck and raises his arms like he’s stretching after a normal person’s workout. 

“I feel like I should be shocked? I should be reacting more than I am right now, yeah? Have I really gotten so used to this shit that a supernatural creature who eats people’s arms like a kabob is just… an average Wednesday?” Stiles stands up, feeling a little silly because he’s standing arms akimbo in denim booty shorts looking down at a dead, decapitated Wendigo. His definition of normal could definitely use some work.

“An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior,” Peter offers with a shrug.

“Did you just quote Hannibal?!”

“Actually, Bedelia’s quoting Viktor Frankl in that scene. A very famous Austrian psychiatrist and philosopher. You’d know that if—”

“Okay, nerd. Save your weird esoteric rants for another time. We should probably uh… clean up the dead body before anyone notices??” Stiles glances over at the gap in the beaded curtain, thanking god for loud ass, headache-inducing EDM and cheap vodka for keeping everyone occupied while the club’s homicidal owner met a swift demise. The dance floor is still packed with sweaty bodies who are blissfully unaware of what just went down.

Peter nods.

“Guard the doorway. I’ll call that broody nephew of mine.”

  
  


***

  
  


“So uh… I might have almost made out with your uncle right before the man-eating monster showed up,” Stiles confesses, taking a sip of tea. He’s sitting across from Derek at the kitchen island in his apartment. If someone had told fifteen-year-old Stiles that he and Derek would be tea-sipping friends, he would have laughed in their face, but a lot has happened in five years.

Derek just shakes his head with a knowing half-grin. It’s remarkably similar to Peter’s knowing half-grin, and while Stiles knows Derek would grunt and roll his eyes if someone pointed that out, it’s totally obvious they’re related.

“Why do you think Scott and I were so eager to send you out together?”

“I’m sorry, you sent me out  _ as bait _ just so I could get over my sexual tension with Peter? Wasn’t there, like, a safer way to do that? Like maybe, I don’t know,  _ talking _ to me?!”

“We knew you’d be fine. Peter would protect you with his life. In fact, you’re probably the  _ only _ person he’d protect with his life. Besides, Scott and I were on standby outside, and I’m pretty sure you were dying to go. The short shorts were your idea, remember?” Derek’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes a sip of his tea, smiling at Stiles over the rim of his mug.

“Yeah yeah, everyone is really keen to remind me of that fact.” Stiles stares down into his tea, fiddling with the handle of his mug, and the room goes quiet for a minute.

“What’s wrong?” Derek finally asks, resting a reassuring hand on Stiles’s forearm. 

“He hasn’t called me or texted or anything.”

“Have you tried calling him?”

“No.”

Derek groans and slaps a hand to his forehead.

“Stiles… why are you two  _ like _ this?! Just text him.”

“Why doesn’t he text me?! If he really wanted to talk to me, he would have. It’s been four days, Derek!”

“Stiles, if you want to talk to someone, you talk to them. It’s that simple. Now please, for the sake of everyone’s sanity—mine, Scott’s, the  _ entire _ pack, to be honest—text him.”

“Okay, the fact that you’re lecturing  _ me _ about my communication skills and not the other way around is truly driving home how pathetic I’m being. Fuck it.” Stiles bucks up his courage, slips his phone out of his pocket and sends Peter a message.

_ U know… I still have the shorts… want me 2 wear them again sometime? _

The reply is almost immediate.

**If you’re not here in an hour, I’m coming to you.**

  
  


*** 

  
  


“Hey…” Stiles says, awkwardly tugging on the cuff of his flannel shirt as Peter opens the door. He didn’t really wear the shorts because there’s no goddamn way he’s wriggling into those suckers ever again. Stiles and the shorts have a pending date with a bonfire very, very soon. They must not be allowed to live.

“Hello, darling,” Peter replies with a broad grin full of dirty intent that lights a spark in every hungry part of Stiles. “Come in.”

“I’m not really good at that whole ‘we both know why I’m here so let’s get to it’ thing,” Stiles apologizes with a shrug as he stands around Peter’s spacious apartment, trying to decide if he should sit, and if so where? And what if he makes the first move, and— 

Before Stiles can dive into his usual endless deliberation, Peter’s lips are on his, his big hands on Stiles’s hips, pulling him close. Peter doesn’t waste any time. It’s a deep, filthy kiss right away, his hands roaming anywhere they like, and Stiles sighs into it, feeling like a swoony old Hollywood actress who needs a fainting couch. That doesn’t explain why, when Peter pulls back, Stiles says, “Why didn’t you call me?”

Peter frowns, but there’s an amused upturn to the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve been known to come on a little strong, and while I absolutely adore flirting with you and watching you squirm, it’s been months, Stiles. I figured it was the right time to make it as clear as I could and let you come to me when you wanted to.”

“That’s… weirdly reasonable? Are you sure you haven’t been body-snatched?”

“Trust me, if you’d taken even an hour more than you did, I would have been more than happy to take matters into my own hands.”

“Now  _ that’s _ the Peter I know,” Stiles laughs, linking his arms around Peter’s neck and pulling him into another toe-curling kiss. “Now are you gonna fuck me on that couch or on the kitchen table? I know there’s a certain hotness to the table thing, but I don’t know if it’s worth the back pain.”

“Stiles, I’m going to fuck you everywhere. I’m going to fuck you until we’re both too exhausted to do anything other than collapse in a heap on my bed, and after a good night’s sleep, I’m going to fuck you again because this has been long overdue and I’m ready to make up for lost time. Is that alright with you?” Peter asks, cradling Stiles’s cheek in one hand, his other hand stroking up and down Stiles’s back.

“Yes, yes—fuck—that’s—yeah, let’s do that.” Stiles laughs as Peter scoops him up and carries him to the couch. 

Maybe he won’t send the shorts to the burn pile just yet. After all, they’re kind of a memento now, a reminder of the night Stiles finally stopped lying to himself and decided to fall into Peter’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> For all manner of Steter and Teen Wolf fuckery, I can be found here: [punchedbymarkesmith](https://punchedbymarkesmith.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life so let me know if you enjoyed this ridiculousness!


End file.
